Rusted, Busted, and Battered
by Ganksters
Summary: Of all the ways I could go, slowly suffering to death with inescapable pain was not one I had considered. But I'll be damned if I'll let Sam drag me to some hippy-dippy healer.
1. Chapter 1: Busted

**Prologue**

It was the damn truck-driving bastard's fault. I'm not one to blame others , I 've got no problems owning up to my faults and taking blame where I deserve it, and I usually do, but the pain in my back was totally on that ass hat. It'd be an all sunshine and roses kinda day when the idiot had braked like a stone wall in front of me, and my baby had impaled the front of her sacred bumper on his heavy duty pulling hitch. Straight through the radiator. Damn. I'd had to call Bobby to come with the tow truck to pull her back to the shop. The guy'd been an apologetic jerk who didn't have a problem taking my insurance information and phone number, since I had _clearly_ rear-ended HIM. My self-control…surprised even me, because I was so ready to smash that simpering slim balls face in, but Bobby had showed up in the nick of time. I handled loading my battered impala and casting the curses while Bobby managed the actual talking.

Satan's hitch damage had been easy enough to fix when all the parts finally arrived, but it's like the goddamn thing set of a chain reaction in my baby. She started falling apart and everything went straight to the crapper. During the repair, I discovered rust on her under carriage. Fan-freaking-tastic. A few days after I'd gotten her on the road again a tire blew. And shortly after that the battery died while I was sitting at a stop light.

"How could you do this to me?" I grunted, hefting the old battery out from its place under her hood. I was drenched in sweat and breathing hard from pushing her metal ass into the shop after bringing her back with the tow truck. But my day was about to get even better. God, I hate Thursdays because as I stepped back with the 50 pound + battery in my arms, my heel slipped in a grease spot. Down I went, or I would've, if I hadn't shot my other leg out as fast as I did. I didn't hear a pop or feel a tear, but pain spiked in my back like I'd been stabbed. Gasping like a marathoning fat man, I tottered over and dumped the battery on the work bench and collapsed into a wobbly folding chair.

Ok, granted, I'd had back trouble on and off from working like a boss in the mechanic's shop Bobby and I owned, but I wouldn't have completely destroyed it if Satan's hitch hadn't cursed my baby to hell and turned her against me. The sitting wasn't helping. A solid bar of pain originating from the right side crossed the entire lower part of my back and any movement turned the pain's power up.

I patted down my pockets, looking for the cell phone Sammy, the little bitch, had forced me to get. But of course I didn't have it on me. In fact, I wasn't exactly sure where it was. But that didn't matter. There was a phone in the office, the office that was all the way on the opposite side of the shop, dude, was this my lucky day or what?

I dropped my head back. But that somehow put pressure on my back and shot more pain down my legs. So I just sat there, unmoving and trying to breathe my way through the pain. Eventually it subsided and I used the tool wrack beside the bench to pull myself up. God, I was not used to this. Is this how Bobby feels? Please, someone shoot me before I get old. Hobbling and bent over, I made my way to the office and called Sam. Time to call in some big brother favors. He owed me anyways.

Over the next few days I got X-rayed, palpated and prodded by Sammy's medical buddies. I'd refused to go to the emergency room. I wasn't freaking bleeding out; there was no way in HELL I'd be wheeled in there. So Sam had called a few of his med school colleagues and gotten three of them to unofficially take a look at me. Apparently, I had a slipped disk, or maybe a torn muscle, or perhaps a 'very bad' strain. Basically, they didn't know what the hell was wrong with me but they all definitively said my back wasn't broken. Wow, way to really restore my faith in the medical system. Two Winchester middle fingers WAY up. I was advised to wrap it, apply ice, or maybe heat, to try not to move, but to not be too static. At this point I didn't bother listening, it wasn't broken so that meant time and manning up. I would get over this.

Time did pass, and a few days later I could start to move, but the pain was a constant monster on my back. That damn hitch. I swear, if that guy ever came in to our shop, I'd show him how to really use a screwdriver. I popped pills like tick-tacks. It helped but I couldn't live like this for the rest of my life. At 27 I was a broken man, wearing braces like a goddamn ballerina.

Sam and Bobby weren't helping me win any congeniality crowns either. I didn't want to see anyone who'd butter me up and massage my flesh like tenderized meat. But they both kept pestering me about this girl they'd been to who'd really helped them. They'd started seeing her when Bobby'd wrecked his knees a couple years back for what seemed like the millionth time. He'd shown up at work on crutches and wacked anyone who commented over the head with one. The wonder Hospital had advised knee surgery, and we'd given that a swift kick in the ass and agreed that was the worst idea of the century. Sammy, always the one to try to fix things, had gone on the hunt and called around to see if anyone knew someone who could help. Pretty quickly, he'd been given the name of a young therapist who'd just started a practice in town. She'd come highly recommended and Sam persuaded Bobby to give it a go. I'd not been in on this much, the shop had just begun to really take off and get busy. I was happy when Bobby got off his crutches and back to work but didn't really think much about the fact that now, after 2 or 3 years since the incident, he was moving better than he had in, well, ever. And Sammy, the psycho health nut, was back to playing racket ball with his longtime girlfriend, Gwen, after the therapist worked over the shoulder he'd injured in a car wreck. Still, I wasn't about to go crying to a therapist for help. There was nothing that could be done about my back anyway.

 **Chapter 1**

"Dean, seriously, It hurts me to watch you." Sam said, wincing as he watched me slowly sink into the booth. We met almost every week at a little café/dinner that served crappy sweet tea and mediocre food but had the best pie this side of heaven. So who needed food?

"Alright, then don't look." I said, flipping open the menu even though I knew what I wanted.

"Yeah Dean, you look like crap." Bobby growled.

"Well you're not really my type anyway, Bobby." I winked at the older man. He didn't look amused at all.

"Dean, for real, you're going to see Elaine." Sam said.

"Yeah, um, who is that?" I knew who they must mean, I just liked to see Sam's bitch face.

"She's the MFR therapist, Dean, and Sam got you an appointment for tomorrow. You're going." Bobby thumped his fist on the table like a judge delivering a lifetime sentence. And I was the prisoner.

I eyed him and Sam. "You made me an appointment? What is this, an intervention?"

"She's usually got a waiting list but since I told her it's an emergency, she's made special time for you." Sam looked pleased. It annoyed me.

"I am not an emergency, you liar."

"If I have to work one more day around your shit head attitude, I'll shoot you and then it _will_ be an emergency." Bobby said, and I didn't doubt him.

"Thanks for the effort, guys, really but I'm not letting some stranger touch me."

"She'd not a stranger, you've met her before." Sam said.

I was taken aback. "What, when?"

"Do you remember when we moved into that house on Leon St.? The one with the blue door and big backyard?"

"Yes Sam, but that the hell does that have to do with this chick I'm supposed to know?"

"Let me finish, jerk."'

"Well hurry up, bitch."

Sam scowled but continued. "So remember that family that lived in the house directly behind ours?" he paused, I didn't really but I nodded. "with the two older boys and a younger girl?"

"God Sam, yes, I remember." And I was beginning to, vaguely.

"The girl was my age and we played together a lot. You know, the one with the wild hair who sang all the time?"

I had a mental image suddenly of an eight year old Sammy dashing around after a girl with a massive plume of flying hair. And I remembered all the mud and sticky fingers and laughter of that summer.

"They moved out the year after we moved in. But Elaine and I still went to the same middle school and hung out all the time."

"You mean that girl is the therapist you're trying to get me to see?"

"She's hardly a girl anymore, Dean, she's my age and a really well respected MFR therapist."

"She's quite a looker now too." Bobby interjected.

Sam and I both stared at him.

"Bobby, no just…no. And now I'm really not going. I'm not having some kid poke around at me, she'll probably make it worse."

"Oh my God, Dean, she's been doing this for 5 years, and yeah, she's young, but the youngest to complete all the required training, even the senior MFR therapist in San Antonio drives all the way out here to receive treatment from _her_." Sam was serious now. "She owns and runs her own clinic and I'm dragging your sorry ass there tomorrow."

"Yeah, _boy_ , he is. You're too young to be moving like a dead man."

I could see I wasn't going to get out of this, not with both of them chewing on me

Sighing, I sat back in the booth "Fine, you jack asses, I'll go. Now where's my pie."


	2. Chapter 2: Clinical

I was fuming. Reduced to this. I, Dean Winchester, mechanical genius had my ass powdered and handed to me, and was _driven_ like some disorderly old man across town to wait in the "clinic". A clinic, by the way, that was nothing more than a converted old house. I mean, what the hell am I even doing here, stiffly sitting on the woven seat of a wooden chair, getting high on the aromatic candles standing on the coffee table. I felt one of my eyes twitch slightly as I noticed there were little knitted doilies pretending to be coasters sitting on the dark wood coffee table. Reduced to _doilies_.

It had taken roughly three minutes to catalogue every detail of the waiting room. Every. Single. One. Down to the last inch of painted wood paneled walls and to the last stitch of the tight weave carpet. I was already sick of it. My leg absently jerked up and down and my fingers nervously taped out Metallica on my crossed arms.

I wanted out. Where the hell was Sam anyways? Shooting a heavy glare towards the entrance, I reminisced. My stupid little brother had dragged me here against my will, and then left me to die alone as he "stepped out" to talk to his girlfriend on the phone. For days. How long had I been here? Was it still Thursday? Oh sweet mother of pies maybe they'd actually forgotten me. Did I even have an appointment? Would I be escorted out as an intruder? Or would I be left here, just another unobtrusive relic to be seen but unnoticed in this atmosphere of eternal "waiting." It's settled. I'm gonna freaking _murder_ that slime-drinking Satan's hitch-driving mother-

My thought train derailed when the interior door opened. I glanced up briefly, suddenly feeling guilty and more nervous than ever.

"Dean?"

I grimaced, looking away from the girl who'd called my name. What was this? Was I a rouge student waiting in the principal's office? I _felt_ like I was being punished. She wasn't in scrubs or anything, so she was probably the high school helper coming to take me to that crazy new-age one-time friend of my moose ass brother. Ugh. "Yeah, that's me," I grunted through the pain as I stood.

She hummed softly and I could feel her staring at me. I felt judged.

"What?" I asked crossly, turning my glare towards her.

Her mouth was pulled down and her eyebrows were slightly furrowed. She had long brown hair tucked into a sloppy bun that was not entirely even and somehow not at all unpleasant. Her eyes, which were staring intently at- _and judging_ \- me, were of similar color, but there was an underlying tone. A clear golden wash, which oddly reminded me of something I'd find in a sun-lit whiskey glass. Huh.

All in all, with her tan skin, well-defined, oval shaped face, and her slim figure, she was easy on the eyes. After another few glances, my irritation dissolved and my interest was stirred. I fired up my best Winchester grin. Better start putting in a good impression because she was better than easy on the eyes, she was quite a looker. "Yeah, I'm Dean, Dean Winchester," I said smoothly, "And you are?"

She extended a slender hand towards me, intense face replaced with a wide smile, showing off cute dimples. "Elaine Graves. The MFR therapist, sorry to keep you waiting, Dean."

I shook it, feeling her firm grasp.

"If you want to just follow me right in here, we'll get started." She gestured to the door behind her as she stepped aside for me to pass.

I grimaced and ambled passed.


	3. Chapter 3: Healing

Elaine Graves, MFR Therapist:

It'd been a total accident. There I'd been, just driving back to my house after getting coffee. And out of nowhere I'd see his car, and then his unmistakable blonde hair. A strike went through my heart. It was like an electric shock but without the pain. The surprise was hair raising and the sudden heart rate increase left me gasping and jittery. But I realized that it was better than it had been. _This was better_. Previously, the emotions seeing his face brought were viscous and deep. Cutting and bludgeoning memories into my mind that tore open the scars in my chest. But now, it hardly hurt. I wondered if this meant I was moving on, or just used to it. Tentatively, I touched the space below my collarbone, it could have been my imagination, but the area seemed tender, like inflamed skin around a heeling wound. But it was heeling at least.

I found it hard to focus the rest of the day, clients in and out in a blur, but I refused to admit my state of unrest was caused by the chanced glimpse of _his_ face. At any rate, I was relieved when I checked my calendar and saw that I only had one more client left.

 _Dean W._ with the scribbled note _emergency._ I recalled the conversation with my friend, the younger Winchester, Sam, about his brother. It hadn't sounded like Dean wanted to come but was in too much pain to refuse. Lots of people went on longer than necessary, carrying pain they didn't need simply because they didn't have time to care for themselves...or were too proud to admit weakness. I stood breathing for a few heart beats, realizing I fit into both categories. I cleared this thought away and refocused myself with a few deep breaths. I opened the door to the waiting room.

I am calm. I am not the important one today, not at this moment.

"Dean?"

* * *

My grin faltered as I stepped into the room and saw the neat, tidy furnishings. I was really doing this. One wall was made out of white square shelves stocked with canvas bins. In a few cubbies sat neatly folded blankets and a few pillows. In the middle of the room a massage table stood angled towards the wide bank of windows that flooded the room with cool natural light. I guessed this was all in some 'sooth your client' handbook handed out at the bohemian music festival or something.

I wasn't sure what to do so I perched on the edge of the massage table. Elaine closed the door behind me and crossed to the wall of shelves, pulling out a bin and unfolding a sheet.

"So, Dean, tell me what's up with you" she asked as she moved to the massage table. I stood awkwardly so she could cover it, wincing a little.

"Ah, well, I uh, it's my back mostly." Apparently I'd left all my smoothness in the waiting room.

"Which part, the upper, middle or lower back?" Finished with the sheet, she pulled a rolling stool out from under the table and sat, still smiling warmly. I didn't feel right towering over her like that,( was this how Sam felt about most of the population?) but I hadn't been instructed to sit or lay down so I just continued to stand, stupidly, thinking about her question.

"Well it started in the lower back but now the whole thing is so fucke-er-messed up it's hard to say where exactly the pain is coming from." There it was, the first time I'd admitted to being in pain. And to a stranger. Damn you Sammy for dragging me here.

She nodded, eyes evaluating me. "And how long ago was the injury?" I looked everywhere but at her, feeling acutely self-conscious.

"Oh hell, just a few weeks ago."

"Good, it's better to catch the injury young."

I flicked my eyes to her face. What the hell did that mean? Catch it young, did pain spread like a disease? Was I infected with something?

"All right, I'm gonna check your hips now. Can you take your shoes off?" She waited while I slipped out of my boots then she extended her arms out towards me. I shuffled a few steps closer so her hands rested lightly on the sides of my torso. I flinched a little, fighting the blush that was creeping against my will into my face.

"Sorry, didn't mean to tickle you." She said, face calm.

I tried hard not to think about how awkward it was to have a young beautiful girl on a stool in front of me, measuring or checking or whatever the hell she was assessing, but right at eye level with...

"Humm." She said, narrowing her eyes, I looked down too,worried, "your hips are even, so that's good, but I feel a lot of heat coming from you lower back, especially on the right side"

Well, now that she said it, that was the side I first felt the stabbing pain in. I'll be damned. Was she a freaking mind reader?

"All right, why don't you hop up on the table, face up, head at that end." She rolled her stool away and pointed the direction she wanted my head. In no shape for hopping, I eased myself up with as much man grace I could muster.

Someone, probably Elaine, had stuck a sticky note to the fan blade directly above my head. It had delicately drawn flowers and vines edging the words 'keep smiling!' My man ego took another blow. The therapist was busying herself at my feet, slipping my socks off.

"What are you doing now?" I asked, folding my arms behind my head and lifting so I could look down at her. It caused my back to burn a bit.

"Just checking to see if there are any rotations in your hips."

"You can get that from my feet?" That's quite a feet. I tried not to snicker out loud, bad puns are life.

She nodded and said "Uh huh, and when I do this," She slid her hands around my ankles and lifted them gently, leaning back and pulling, "I can feel all sorts of tensions. Lay your head back and see what you feel." I did as she directed.

At first, I didn't feel anything. I fidgeted, maybe I was doing something wrong. Maybe this was wrong. I only felt like an idiot for trusting my brother. But the longer she pulled on my ankles the more I became aware of a stretching and gentle tugging in the lowest part of my back. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but seemed to agitate something deep in my spine.

"You're probably feeling that now." Elaine said, and again I wondered at her abilities. "Now can you feel it in one side more than the other?"

I focused on my back and felt a hotter burning in the right side.

"In the right side, like you said earlier. How do you know all this stuff." And then before I could stop myself, "are you a mind reader?"

"No," she laughed in a clear soft way. "No, but I guess you could say I'm a body reader." She laughed again, and I looked down at her, catching a glimpse of the red blush that spread across her cheeks.

She set my feet down then and rolled up on my right side and stopped at my hips. A warm hand slid under my back and the other pressed lightly into my abdomen. Elaine was explaining to me how MFR worked, gently sensitive pressure releasing the bodies connective tissue and I tried to listen but Sam had lectured me for hours about the technique and it's studies and anyway, I was too busing enjoying the feeling of painlessness. Almost the moment her hand had connected with my body I'd felt relief. The pain didn't go away that quickly but it's like my body could sense that Elaine's hands knew what to do, understood the pain, and would do everything that could be done to help alleviate it. My cheek twitched as I bit back a smile.

I was 'in good hands' and my body knew it. God, someone stop me.

I don't know when or how but at some point I slipped into unconsciousness. I couldn't remember the last time I'd 'napped' but one moment Elaine was working on my back the next I was opening my eyes to the sound of her rolling chair scooting away from the table.

"There you have it, your first MFR treatment. I'm sorry it couldn't be more relaxing." She said with a smile as I rubbed my sleep eyes.

"Oh god, did I snore?"

"Snoring is encouraged." Another smile. Which I took to mean that I totally had.

I moved to get up, bracing for the onslaught of pain but then….it didn't come or not nearly as bad as I was expecting.

Elaine must have seen the surprise on my face because she asked "How does it feel?"

Slowly and incredulously easing myself to my feet, I couldn't help but frown. Now I was going to have to say Sam and Bobby were right. "It feels…way better."

"And you're happy about that, right?"

"Well, yeah." I sighed as I slipped back into my shoes, noting that I could now bend over to pull them on, and it didn't hurt. "But I came to you kicking and screaming, this means I've got to apologize to my dork brother."

"Oh." She shruggled, "Well that's a small price to pay, I think."

I nodded and smiled then. "Yeah but he's gonna hold this one over me for a while."

"I don't think he'll carry on too long." She said, pulling the sheet off the table and tossing it into a hamper in the closet.

I remembered then that maybe she knew more about me and my family than I knew about hers. Actually, I knew for a fact that was true.

She turned back to me. "Give him my best for me."

I nodded and said that I would and before I could really knew what was happening, I was out the door and sliding into the seat of Sam's car.

"Well?" Sam asked approximately 15 seconds after I'd landed.

"I feel better." Short, don't give him ammo to gloat about.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, god, I feel better, you were right. Happy?" I snapped.

I _felt_ him smirk.

"I'm just happy you're feeling good."

I grunted.

"Did you get another appointment?" He poked.

"I'm just gonna see how this works. Maybe."

"It better if you do a follow up visit." Sam poked again.

I made another non-committal grunt, treat me like an old fogy and I get the right to act like one. The car passed into silence.

* * *

When we pulled up in front of my house and I clambered out, noting grudgingly that the pain level was drastically different then when I'd clambered in just a few short hours earlier. I waved Sam off and ambled up the front steps. Making a B-line for the kitchen, I grabbed a beer and kept on until I reached the back porch. It was an old house and nearly all the money I made at the shop went into repairs but I didn't mind. Working with my hands gave me a pleasure few things did. Pride and accomplishment and all that jazz. In the past 5 years since I'd picked the place up for a dirt cheap price, I'd re-done the kitchen, master bedroom, painted, and added a sturdy back porch that had become my favorite part of the house. I'd been planning on starting work on the downstairs bathroom when the shit hit the fan. But now, pasted back together somewhat, I think I could start. And that moose brother of mine and that pixie girl were to thank. I sighed and took a drag of beer, patting pockets for my cell phone, not entirely sure I hadn't left it in Sam's car. I hadn't. Pulling it out of my front pocket I flicked at the screen until I'd set up a text to Sam:

Dean: Moose, what that MFR chicks #

Seconds later a response violently vibrated my phone.

Samammoth: You're going to re-schedule? That's great! Here's ELAINE's contact.

Capitals and punctuation, aw Sammy, you shouldn't have. The phone buzzed again with the incoming contact information. I selected the number and saved it purposely as "Hippy Healer".

Dean: Thx  
A quick stream of texts came in.

Samammoth: You are going to reschedule, right?  
Samammoth: Oh God, you're not going to hit on her are you?  
Samammoth: Dean, she's a professional, just, GOD. What have I exposed her to?

I imagined him pulling at his hair and rolled my eyes, quickly writing a text before my brother could have a conniption fit.

Dean: calm down, im the king of professionalism, gonna reschedule.

Samammoth: fff yeah, and I'm the King of Poland. Good to hear though, let me know how you're doing.

I tossed my phone into the seat beside me and settled into my drink again. I'm not interested in a squirrely chick half a decade younger than me. Nope, no way. The memory of the red blush on her cheeks and the warmth of her hands suddenly blasted back into my head.

Yep, there's absolutely NO interest there.


End file.
